The Perfume in the Hollow of His Clavicle
by storybycorey
Summary: She can't accept that this is their end. She needs there to be more. She needs to fit herself into that cove beneath his chin, she needs to inhale him until she's drunk off his scent. This is a companion piece to my story, "She Reverberates Through Him," although could also stand alone.


Written for XF Writing Challenge Prompt: Scent

Timeline: Post-breakup, pre-revival

She felt it immediately. The first time she descended into the basement. A change in the air.

The atmosphere was different there, dug beneath the hustle and bustle and starched white shirts of the main building. It was quieter, calmer. Though she could have found it cramped and slightly claustrophobic, she saw through the clutter, paying attention to the air instead. Still, tranquil.

She walked through his door and felt a change again. Now the air held his presence, layered over the hush. She could feel his passion, his thirst, his hunger, hovering there like a mist. But underlying it all, there was still a quiet tranquility.

And the scent. She breathed it in as she approached him, hunched and aloof at his desk. Dusky and stale at first, but with an undercurrent beneath. Something indefinable. Something still. Something secret. A hidden cave unearthed during a walk in the woods, mysterious and off-the-path, untouched for years, perhaps even decades. Secreted away and seething with the clandestine tales of its past.

That's what it smelled like down there. That first day.

And over time, she came to realize that's what he smelled like, too. Earthy, dry, mossy, elusive. Each time she inhaled him, it felt like an offer, an invitation. To join him in his secret underground dwelling, just the two of them, hidden away from the outside world.

And the scent was so appealing, she accepted, time and time and time again.

….

Until she couldn't accept anymore. Until it became too painful to accept, too painful to accompany him.

Because, twenty-three years in, he'd begun to go too deep, burrowing so far beneath the earth, she could feel the heat of the magma burn against her hands as she crawled behind him.

And though she tried to pull him out, he refused, preferring to stay there, amidst the dirt and rock and heat, instead of ascending back to the surface to be with her.

And it became too much, this tug-of-war their relationship had become. His rope was too strong, and she could feel herself losing grip. She was being pulled down, slowly and painfully. Into the pit he now inhabited.

She clawed at the earth, seeking purchase, on something, on anything, but in the end, she had only one choice.

She had to untie her tether.

….

It's been two months since she left.

It feels like years, eons.

Yet it also feels like yesterday.

It feels like yesterday that he sat on their bed watching her pack. His gaze was a mudslide against the hill of her back, and it pulled at her, weighing her down. There were tears in her eyes but a purpose in her step, as she held back the sobs that choked in her throat.

She was relieved when he left the room- his presence had been too much- and she finished quickly, before he thought to return. In a moment of weakness, she pulled a shirt from his hamper, the first thing she touched, and stuffed it into her bag as she left the room.

On her way to the door, he caught her hand. Without looking at him, she whispered, "I have to go, Mulder," and pulled her trembling fingers away as she closed the door.

And then she walked away.

….

And now, she can't help but wonder whether it was the worst decision she's ever made.

For weeks she's gone through the motions. Someone observing her from the outside would never realize. She's still strong, capable, responsible Dana Scully, saving the world one patient at a time. Her apartment has been decorated, her refrigerator has been stocked, and her schedule has been set. She's even joined a gym. She's a new woman, now that she's not being pulled beneath the earth.

She's adjusted so well to life alone, it seems.

But she's been pretending. To the outside world, and to herself. She's been pretending that every heartbeat hasn't been a struggle, that every breath hasn't been a chore. That she enjoys this bright, new, shiny life she's chosen, and that her fingers aren't itching to claw their way back into the ground, just to see his face.

Because once the day is over, once she's shed her doctor skin each evening, she is impossibly lost, unbearably adrift. She doesn't know how to exist alone in her Scully skin anymore, it's been so long. She doesn't know how not to crawl back into that hole, how not to search for him in the dark.

And much as she tries to learn, it feels unfathomable.

She misses him. So much. Misses the man he used to be, and even misses the man he's become.

She's deep in withdrawal, craving him in a way she hasn't for years, since before she even felt his lips against her own, that long. She misses his laugh, she misses his voice, she misses his silence. She misses his eyes and his lips and his skin. But most of all, she misses his scent. She misses the heady rush she felt every time she pressed her lips against his throat, breathing him in.

Breathing the air that had clung beneath his jaw all day. Ingesting it, consuming it, devouring it.

And now that it's gone, she's not sure how much longer she can live without it.

….

Friday evening, and she dreads the thought of returning to her apartment. Driving, she can already feel the throb of solitude at her temples. The struggle in her bones to forget. She hadn't anticipated how physically exhausting it would be leaving a life behind.

Her weariness is interrupted by the trill of her phone, then multiplied once she sees the caller's name. Him. She contemplates not answering. Does she really want to open that door tonight? But her sense of obligation and the thump of her heart win the debate, and she brings it hesitantly to her ear.

The conversation is brief and impersonal, only a minor question about the house, but just the sound of his graveled voice crunching against her ear is enough. Enough to make her want him again, crave him again. Enough to bring to the surface every emotion she's tried to tamp down for the last two months.

Her fingers tremble as she finishes her drive. And her mind zeroes in on the one thing she's tried to avoid. The one connection she has left of him. Hidden in her closet, on the top shelf, behind her winter sweaters. His T-shirt.

Once home, she struggles to make the want go away, paces her apartment hoping the temptation will dissolve. This time apart is supposed to make her forget him, not want him even more. But trying to fight it only makes the desire stronger. To feel him against her skin, to breathe him into her lungs.

After several minutes, she realizes it's no use- the thought of his scent against her nose is overwhelming her. She admits defeat, and though she doesn't consciously rush to the closet, she's there before she even realizes she's made the decision. Her heart is beating and her breaths have quickened, and she has become almost dizzy at the prospect of his smell after so many weeks.

She'd known this moment would come, had taken his shirt for just this reason, though she'd never admit it. She hates how weak it makes her feel, how pathetic. But she hates the pain of needing him even more.

As soon as her fingers touch the fabric, a calm seeps through her. She can almost imagine his hardened muscles underneath as she folds herself into the sanctuary of his cotton-covered chest.

Lying gingerly upon the bed, she curls her torso into a 'C' and brings the security blanket of his shirt to her cheek.

And lets his scent slide through her.

And slide and slide and slide. Until she is both surrounded by him and within him. Until she is once again a part of him.

And the memories flow like molten glass, slow and thick and sweet.

One after another after another.

Of his scent the first time, fresh in her nostrils and new beside her cheek. Oregon. How she'd burrowed her head against his chest, and how even then she'd known. That the illicit invitation of his aroma was too tempting, too appealing. That it wouldn't be long before she'd be hooked.

Of the next time she'd sought refuge in the air beneath his jaw. Pfaster. How the relief had coursed through her body when he'd found her. How he'd untied her wrists and tilted her chin, and she'd bled her tears against his chest. She'd already become addicted at that point. She'd already begun to require him. It had happened so fast.

Of the night she'd finally smelt the rest of him, his elbow, his pelvis, his cock. How he'd cradled his hand around her breast, slid his tongue along the slope of her thigh, and whispered her name as she'd come undone, again and again and again. How intoxicating it had been, the amalgamation of the two of them, hovering in the air above their spent bodies, and how she'd savored the scent like a delicacy.

Of the day he'd told her he was leaving her behind, that he wouldn't allow her to follow him. How she'd pressed her nose against his ear, breathing him in, somehow knowing it could be the last time. And how she'd held that breath for so, so long, hoarding it in her pocket, coveting it like a treasure, until he'd finally returned.

Of the day she'd gotten him back, how she'd laid her head against his chest, closed her eyes, and finally, finally been able to breathe again.

And of countless, countless other times. How the smell of him had comforted her, consoled her, caressed her. How he'd enfolded her in the cloister of his body and she'd known nothing but the feel of his arms and the perfume in the hollow of his clavicle.

….

She lies for hours, eyes closed and shirt clutched against her cheek, embracing the memories one by one.

Until there are no more. No more memories. Until the well of her brain is empty of him. It's impossible, she thinks. But as she scours the steep walls, searching for just one more drop clinging to the dampened brick, there is nothing.

She becomes desperate, frantic at the thought.

She's never thought of her life with him as a limited entity, a story that actually has an end.

And she realizes she can't accept that. She can't accept that this is their end. She needs there to be more. She needs to fit herself into that cove beneath his chin, she needs to inhale him until she's drunk off his scent.

He can't have dug himself so deep that she can no longer reach him. She has to believe that. She's had two months of rest, and her arms have regained their strength. She needs to pick up that rope and tug one more time.

She needs to try.

….

The drive to the house is the longest she's ever taken. She's never been more afraid in her life. That perhaps he's moved on, perhaps he is satisfied their story has ended. She aches for him so profoundly, she doesn't think she can bear it if he no longer feels the same.

She holds her breath as she knocks on the door, tap tap tap, and counts away the seconds until he answers. Twenty-three. Maybe it's fate. She bites her lip to keep it from quivering.

The door inches open, creaking so sluggishly she thinks she may die from the suspense. And when he finally comes in view, his eyes are shut, his heart is on his sleeve. She can see the agony in his face, can read the anguish in his limbs. He's in just as much pain as she.

Slowly, she moves into the space of him and wraps her arms around his waist, tucking herself into the curve of chest. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and feels the tears begin sliding down her cheek. God, this is it. This is home. This is that hidden place she'd smelled the very first time she'd met him, that secluded cave only large enough for two. This is the continuation of their story.

"Mulder," she murmurs, in an eggshell voice just seconds away from shattering.

He breaks and he surrounds her, sobbing into her neck with the force of a downpour. She clutches his shoulders, in desperation, in relief, in elation. She turns her face and kisses his tears away.

And then she whispers, "I'm home."


End file.
